


Bar the Shouting

by shes_gone



Category: Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Angsty Schmoop, Emotional Constipation, Frottage, Holmes' Boxing, M/M, Watson's Gambling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-10
Updated: 2010-06-10
Packaged: 2017-11-18 16:32:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/563092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shes_gone/pseuds/shes_gone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It always ends the same way, the result decided ages ago. All that's left is for Watson to work out whether it's victory or defeat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bar the Shouting

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tabled](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=tabled).



> Written for [](http://tabled.livejournal.com/profile)[**tabled**](http://tabled.livejournal.com/) in the 2010 [](http://hw09-exchange.livejournal.com/profile)[**hw09_exchange**](http://hw09-exchange.livejournal.com/) \- and what a lovely recipient she is! ♥. Huge thanks to my betas/cheerleaders/nannies, [](http://reallycorking.livejournal.com/profile)[**reallycorking**](http://reallycorking.livejournal.com/) and [](http://tailoredshirt.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://tailoredshirt.livejournal.com/)**tailoredshirt**. ♥ and ♥.

Watson lies alone in the bed, waiting. The room is poorly lit by the small lamp burning in the corner, so his eye is drawn to the window when a light appears in the street outside. The lamplighter should have been at his job hours ago, Watson thinks, and he watches the man with a frown. The gas lamps along Baker Street have been self-igniting for years, but this area of the city has apparently been left to the mercy of unreliable employees.

The light flares, cutting through the darkness to illuminate the man's face, and Watson recognises him: he was at the match, too. The boxing ring is one street over, and Watson watched this same man light the lamps inside it not two hours ago, as he waited for the bout to begin. That the man apparently prioritised his entertainment over his obligations earns him a deeper, more disapproving frown from Watson, but it's accompanied by a curl of guilt because he understands; his own behaviour is all too often poorly affected by his enjoyment of Holmes' matches.

Watson arrived at the event this evening a fair bit later than he typically does, in the hopes of avoiding any unnecessary interaction with the other spectators. They were an unsavoury sort, and Watson was all too aware of how he stood out among them, straight-backed and well-tailored and clean. He feigned disinterest as one of the establishment's many bookies drifted nearer, badgering anyone willing to listen into placing another bet in the final moments before the match began.

"Additional wager for ya this evening, sir?" the voice inevitably came. Watson stiffened, but turned to look the man in the eye, knowing from experience that simply ignoring him wouldn't be sufficient to send him away. He made his wordless gaze his answer, as pointed and as cold as he could manage.

"All right, all right," the man said, with a small chuckle. "Just the usual, then."

Watson's gaze faltered. "Not tonight," he said as he looked away from the man—just a boy, really, who couldn't be much more than twenty.

"Right then. Should you change your mind, Doctor Watson," the boy said with just enough knowing in his voice to set Watson's teeth on edge, "you know where to find me."

Watson tightened his fingers around his cane and didn't reply. Mercifully, the crowd grew boisterous only a moment later, as the competitors entered the ring.

Watching Holmes before a fight begins is just as captivating for Watson as watching him during it, and tonight was no exception. Holmes strode into the ring, shirtless and strung bow-tight, and didn't spare anyone in the crowd, including Watson, so much as a glance. His attention was instead immediately and intently focussed on his opponent, and Watson could almost see the observations and analyses clicking easily through his mind. He's wondered, Watson has, if he'll ever get tired of watching Holmes like this, focussed on a mystery or an opponent or a new piece for the violin (any challenge at all, really), and the answer's always the same: no. Or at least, not any time soon.

And so he watched, intently, as the fight began, and Holmes darted around his latest Goliath, provoking and parrying and processing every new bit of data.

Watson tried to watch for it, as he always does. Searched Holmes' face for evidence, any clue that he was close—a quirk of his lips or a smoothing of his brow or even just a glimmer in his eye—but he found none, and when it happened, it took him by surprise, as it always does. Suddenly Holmes' eyes were in the crowd: on Watson, with unmistakeable deliberateness, like he'd been aware of him the entire time, had known exactly which face in the crowd was his without having to look for him. Focussed and sharp and intimate, Holmes' gaze cut straight through him, and left Watson glad he had an excuse to lean on his cane.

It was only a moment—it's only ever a moment, just a split-second's glance, but in it, everyone in the room disappears. _I've got it now, Doctor, are you ready? Pay attention_ , as if Watson were capable of doing anything else.

The match never lasts long after that, and Watson grows hard in his trousers every time as Holmes easily dispatches yet another opponent. It shouldn't be appealing; the violence and blood and crunch of bone shouldn't be beautiful, but—it's Holmes. All sweat and sinew and unmatched agility; muscles shifting gracefully beneath the fading purple of yesterday's bruises and the angry red of tomorrow's.

Watson's not a gambling man anymore, truly. The thrill of it is gone for him, because this, right here—Holmes—is all the thrill he can handle.

[ : ] [ : ] [ : ]

  
Bare feet crossing a wood floor pull Watson back to the present, and he blushes upon realising that he's grown even more erect in the few minutes he's been alone. There's only a pleased, knowing chuckle in response, however, and then Watson's not alone in the bed, and fingers coated in oil fetched from another room are making quick work of finding their mark, sliding inside and working him open with practised ease.

Watson breathes deeply when they shift closer together, aligning their bodies, and he can smell the boxing ring still on him—sweat and blood and smoke—and it's terrifying, really, how much Watson wants this. Completely terrifying, how much he knows he'd give up for this, and his breath hitches as fingers on his hips dig into his flesh, in question or warning, _I've got it now, Doctor, are you ready?_ and the cock inside him moves—faster, deeper—and it's perfect, bloody fucking _perfect_ as heat builds inside him, sparking and growing and burning and— " _Holmes_ ," Watson gasps, as he comes apart.

[ : ] [ : ] [ : ]

  
_Aloud_ , he thinks, several minutes later, as his wits return and bring the memory of his own voice echoing off these plain, dirty walls. _That was definitely aloud_. His throat tightens in shame as he throws a quick glance at the man lying next to him in the bed – sitting up now, actually, and rolling a cigarette. It's always worse, when his mind clings to the illusion so strongly; he prefers it when he's able to focus on nothing but the physical act, so that afterwards he can leave feeling tarnished in body alone. When it's like this, it really does feel like a crime.

Watson looks away from the man—just a boy, really, who can't be much more than twenty and who never looks so young as he does immediately afterwards, lounging on worn, no-longer-white bed sheets with a cigarette on his lips—and hates that he's made him an unwitting accomplice in this betrayal. Watson's eyes scan the room, which is small and sparse and tinged with that haze of uncleanliness that no level of housekeeping can cure, where time and poverty have left their mark. Shame and regret sinuate more deeply into Watson's gut, and he fights the urge to offer the boy something. He's never paid him, and despite the boy's occupation, there is no wager between them. The boy's never asked for anything, and Watson won't insult him further than he has already.

"I'm not bothered about it," the boy says, the length of a cigarette later. He extinguishes the nub against the wall. "So you can stop looking at me like you've killed my dog."

Watson's heart trips over a misdirected surge of affection. "Right," he says, and glances to where his clothing hangs haphazardly over the room's lone chair. He wants to leave, but he can't quite move yet. His leg needs a bit more time.

"Told you the first time, didn't I?" the boy says, and Watson suspects it was meant to sound flippant. _Anything you want_ , the boy said, when Watson asked his name. _Call me Holmes, if you like_. Watson grits his teeth at the memory.

"So why am I here," Watson asks, his words also coming out colder than he intended, "when I offer you nothing? Certainly you could find someone, at a minimum, of younger and sounder body. Someone in whom you'd be fractionally more invested."

There's a flicker of something deeply familiar over the boy's face, and Watson wishes he hadn't asked. He looks away, feeling suddenly claustrophobic for all the invisible lovers in the room.

"Self-preservation," the boy says, frankly, some moments later. Watson looks at him. "If a bloke like me's gonna have this kind of fun, it'd better be with someone who's got more to lose than I have."

It's an honest reply, and the truth of it sets Watson's heart thrashing. "Fair enough," he says, when he can breathe again, and climbs out of the bed, ignoring his leg's protestations.

He's just pulled his trousers up to his waist when the boy says, "Didn't mean that as a threat," with a hint of apology in his voice. "Wouldn't do that. Not to anyone."

Watson fumbles with the buttons of his trousers and nods his understanding. His fingers are trembling.

"Do you need to rest a bit more?" the boy asks, eyeing Watson's limp dubiously as he hobbles around for his shoes and coat.

There's still time, Watson knows. Another hour, even, would still get him home ages before Holmes, but, "I should go," he mumbles, and he does.

[ : ] [ : ] [ : ]

  
Watson rounds the corner onto Baker Street, his stomach an angry knot of nerves, and finds the windows of 221b still dark. The relief leaves him a little light-headed. The nerves refuse to dissipate, however, churning persistently even as he climbs the front steps and pauses before the door, smoothing his hands over his coat and trousers for the thousandth time since he left the boy's dirty flat. _You're being absurd_ , he tries rationalising with himself, because he knows Holmes isn't home. Holmes is, among many things, a creature of resolute habit, and the hours spent above the boxing ring following every match (in thought or self-medication or the-devil-only-knows what other indulgences) are sacrosanct.

Even so, Watson holds his breath as he opens the front door, steps inside, and listens, because the only thing he knows with greater certainty than the fact that Holmes isn't home right now is the fact that one day, he will be. One day, if Watson doesn't stop this nonsense, Holmes will notice, and he will break habit, and he will be here, waiting for him.

And really, Watson thinks, as he considers the pattern of poor choices in his life, perhaps he's still a gambling man after all.

[ : ] [ : ] [ : ]

  
Watson enters his bedroom, intent on a bath and a change of clothes and perhaps a stiff drink before Holmes comes home, and maybe it's the same night, but maybe it's not. He's done this so many times by now, it's hard to tell one night from the next.

He's only half-way through the door when he has the sudden urge to turn around and run, because it's tonight, apparently. The night he finally loses.

Watson can't see him right away through the darkness, but the familiar scent hits him like a bullet: sweat and blood and smoke tearing straight through him.

"Holmes?" he says, panicked, before he can stop himself.

"Yes," comes Holmes' low, firm voice from the corner nearest the bathroom. He doesn't say anything else, and Watson knows he only answered in order to stem his panic, as though finding someone _else_ in his bedchamber – a burglar or a murderer, perhaps – could be somehow worse than finding Holmes himself, at this particular moment. Silence passes long enough for the initial flare of Watson's adrenaline to settle into a burn, low enough for him to catch his breath, but still hot enough to keep him jumpy and shaky. His eyes adjust to the darkness, and he can see Holmes, seated in a chair opposite the bed.

"Perhaps you'd like to close the door," Holmes says, because Watson's still standing at the threshold, only halfway inside. "We needn't risk waking Mrs Hudson." Watson's manic urge to flee reasserts itself, but some combination of rationality and his natural inclination do to whatever Holmes asks of him has him inside the room only a moment later, the door clicking softly shut behind him.

At length, Holmes says, "May I ask a question?"

 _I've never been able to stop you_ , Watson doesn't say, because he's focussing all his energy on inhaling and exhaling and remaining upright.

"Are you engaging in this behaviour because you want to, or because your habit compels you?"

Watson doesn't know how to answer that question, so he doesn't.

"What I mean is," Holmes continues, "is your gambling compulsion so strong that you're willing to place wagers at the cost of your—" he pauses, "—person, rather than your chequebook?"

Watson still doesn't know what to say, though he thinks maybe he should say yes, because attributing this to his gambling weakness might be undignified, but it's a damn sight better than the truth, and it's not as though Holmes hasn't seen him be so pathetic in the past.

"What I'm asking, Watson, is if you are in control of this situation, or if you find yourself in need of further assistance."

Watson's cheeks burn. "It's under control," he manages to say, and he really should know better than to tell an outright lie to Sherlock Holmes. Holmes, for his part, just looks at him, not even all that witheringly, but Watson withers nonetheless. "It's on its way to being under control," he amends.

Holmes eyes him a moment longer, and then his expression turns suddenly injured, and Watson's heart shoots into his throat. "Are you winning or losing these bets?" Holmes asks sharply. There's a pause, then Holmes abruptly closes his eyes with a tight sigh. "Forgive me. As the man whose performance you are betting on, I am curious, but that is not actually relevant. What I mean to ask is, would you benefit from my assistance in quelling this habit? Or do you in fact enjoy your trysts with this boy?"

To his own surprise, Watson says, "I don't, particularly." An hour ago, he thought that a fairly complex question.

Holmes watches him another moment, then sags heavily back in his chair. "Oh, Watson," he says dolefully. "This is my fault. I shouldn't have taken you anywhere near that boxing ring." Watson frowns in protest, but Holmes continues, "At least not for a long while yet, until we were sure you were strong enough. I was to help you overcome this, and I have failed you, my boy. I am sorry."

"Don't be absurd," Watson answers. "You've done nothing but help me. But for you, I—I'd be a beggar in the street by now. Or worse."

"But I only did the job half-way, Watson! The moment it seemed you'd made progress, I dragged you right back into the lion's den. Lit the fuse myself, encouraging you to place wagers on my own bouts. If we hadn't needed the rent money I would never have—I _should_ never have, under any circumstance. It was painfully short-sighted of me, and I've done you a great disservice."

Watson's heart is still hammering unevenly as Holmes falls quiet and his lips press together into the drawn expression Watson knows all too well: the look of grave self-reproach Holmes wears on those rare occasions when he doesn't get there fast enough, when he doesn't spot that bit of invisible something that would have solved the case in time to save one more life, and Watson's heart sinks.

"Holmes," he says, letting his eyes fall closed. "I—that's not it. I haven't—" He swallows. "I've never placed a wager with him."

A short lifetime passes in silence before Holmes asks, "Is he blackmailing you?"

Watson grimaces. "No."

"Then what is it that compels you to go to him, if you don't want to?" Holmes demands. Watson can't answer.

Holmes rises and crosses the room to where Watson stands, still just inside the door. Holmes reaches for him and pulls the hat Watson forgot he was holding out from between his sweaty fingers, and tosses it onto the bureau. "John, please," he says in a voice so low it seeps right into Watson's skin, "as your friend, I—I implore you. If he's manipulating you in some way, let me—"

"He's not," Watson says. "He's not. He's just... he's—"

"He's what?" Holmes demands.

"He's just there," Watson answers, because it's all the explanation he can think of. "And he's willing."

"I see," Holmes replies, after a deafening silence. He's still standing painfully close, close enough that Watson can hear his every breath, and Watson expects him to draw back, to pull away, at any moment. "When you say it's not under your control," Holmes says, without moving away at all, "you're not speaking of your gambling or the boy taking undue influence, but the force of your own... desires."

Watson's cheeks burn afresh, and he's not sure if he's supposed to reply.

"Do you harbour any particular attachment to this boy?"

Watson attempts to shrug his shoulders, but doesn't manage much actual movement.

There's a long pause. "Watson, if you could get what you needed somewhere else, somewhere safer, would you stop going to him?"

Watson's eyes snap up to Holmes' before he can stop them. "What?" he chokes.

"This is a dangerous game," Holmes says, holding Watson's gaze determinedly. "And if this boy holds no particular prize for you, perhaps you won't be averse to playing it a bit more cautiously."

Watson stares at him in profound disbelief, and then has to look away, his tongue sticking to the roof his mouth. Holmes takes a small step closer, and his scent goes straight to Watson's head, making him dizzy.

"I'm sure there are things he can offer you that I cannot," Holmes says, "a certain breadth of physical experience, no doubt—but I hope that some of that is mediated by the safety you would enjoy here: the privacy and comfort of our home, the knowledge that you can trust me—for I am, Watson, at the very least, your friend."

Watson is shaking. He wants to stop, but he's powerless even to breathe right now, with Holmes so close and smelling so good and bloody well _offering himself_. All Watson has to do is reach, just lean forward, really, and they'd be touching, but sod it _all_ , Watson can't—not like this.

Not with Holmes doing this because he thinks he has to, to keep Watson out of trouble. Not when he's just trying to be a good friend, answering the call of some warped sense of duty.

"I couldn't ask that of you, Holmes," Watson says, whispering so his voice won't shake.

"You didn't," Holmes answers, too quickly. "You didn't ask me."

There's something in his voice, something impossible, and when Watson looks at him, Holmes is looking back steadily, determinedly, but with a distinct edge of vulnerability that steals Watson's breath, if only for how out of place it looks on his friend's face.

"I wish you'd asked me," Holmes says.

"I—" Watson starts, but doesn't know what to say as his mind whirls incoherently at Holmes' expression, and the bare truth it contains. "Holmes," he says, and it was meant to be a question, but it doesn't come out that way. _I had no idea_ , he wants to say. _I didn't know_ , and, _If I had, Holmes, if I'd had even the barest hope_ , and Holmes must read it all on his face, because a moment later, there's a hand cupping Watson's jaw.

"Please don't go to him anymore," Holmes says, low and helpless.

Watson breathes into the warm touch of Holmes' thumb on his cheek and can only shake his head, mouthing silent agreement in the moment before Holmes leans in and kisses him.

[ : ] [ : ] [ : ]

  
Holmes is kissing him and Watson is staring, unable to shut his eyes.

Holmes' eyes are open too—of course they are—trained on him, pinning him as if by physical force, and Watson can't move. Holmes kisses him again and again, his movements uncharacteristically careful and measured, like this is an entirely new area of inquiry and he doesn't dare risk anything brash just yet.

Watson wants to respond, wants to return Holmes' kiss more than he can remember wanting anything, but his body won't cooperate—for fear or disbelief or sheer overwhelm, he has no idea. Holmes pulls away to study his face a moment, then stops short of a proper kiss when he leans back in, instead letting his upper lip just brush Watson's moustache.

Watson's breath hitches, sparking a faint glimmer in Holmes' eyes as he hangs there, breath coming in warm bursts against Watson's mouth. Watson wants to frown in question, but then Holmes is moving, rubbing his lip against carefully groomed whiskers firmly enough to muss them, and something deep inside Watson finally snaps. Every nerve in his body flares to life, and his inability to move is suddenly an inability to _not_ move.

He kisses Holmes back desperately, messily, all lips and tongue and teeth, and a complete absence of propriety. He's kisses him like he's never kissed anyone, like a man who's been too long underwater, dragging in giant lungfuls of air. His hands fist into the fabric at Holmes' waist, and the sound of his cane clattering to the floor goes unheeded by them both.

Holmes gives an appreciative grunt at the change of pace, and answers with equal fervour. He opens his mouth and draws Watson inside, tilting his head until he's found the best angle to fit their mouths together. His tongue slides over Watson's, impossibly hot and slick, and then past it, into his mouth and over his teeth, and Watson can already feel the whisker burn he'll have tomorrow from the days' worth of hair on Holmes' face, but he doesn't care. He'll wear a scarf, or just won't leave home, it doesn't matter, he doesn't care as he slides his fingers roughly into Holmes' hair, and opens his eyes again, just to be sure it's still real.

Holmes is still looking back at him, and the weight of his gaze is very real. Watson has seen many a man crumble under that focus, in an interrogation or a boxing ring or a back alley brawl, but he's never felt it, not like this. Having it turned on _him_ , now, for the purpose of bringing him pleasure is intoxicating, dizzying and wonderful, and Watson can feel his every movement, every exhalation being catalogued—can physically _feel_ it.

He wants to step a thigh between Holmes' legs, wants to feel more of their bodies pressed together, but he can't—Holmes has him backed up against the door. He's not quite sure how that happened, but his balance is off and he can't step forwards as easily as he'd like, so he lowers his hands to Holmes' backside and pulls, and then Holmes is against him, and the pressure on his groin is painful and perfect at once.

The answering hardness against his hip and the noise Holmes makes as they press together leave Watson grinning like a fool, a wellspring of happiness bubbling up inside him. He presses his hips against Holmes' again, and again, earning himself a delicious flutter of Holmes' eyelids.

There are hands, shortly, sliding between their bodies and fumbling with the buttons of Watson's shirt, and he's only just reached for Holmes' to do the same when his shirt is torn open, cool air prickling against his overheated abdomen accompanied by the tiny sound of buttons bouncing against the wooden floor.

Watson would have something to say about that if Holmes' hands weren't on his bare stomach, pushing his undershirt up to expose more skin. Holmes' mouth drags its way along his jaw and down his neck, and then their groins aren't pressed together anymore, because Holmes is arching away to put his mouth on Watson's shoulder and chest. Holmes' hands skirt around to Watson's back underneath his open shirt, and Watson lets his head fall back against the door, his fingers threaded in Holmes' hair.

It feels good, impossibly good, Holmes' lips hot and soft and moist against his skin, but when he moves to slide further down Watson's stomach, Watson makes an involuntary noise of protest. Holmes looks up at him in question, but smiles when the hands in his hair guide him back up to standing. "Like me better up here, do you?" he says against Watson's mouth.

"Of course I do, you thick bastard." Holmes huffs a laugh in response and grins, and Watson can't help but laugh too, as he slides a hand down to Holmes' jaw. He watches his own thumb rub over Holmes' cheekbone until the moment's lasted just a bit too long, and the weight of what's happening starts to bleed in around the edges. Watson feels his heart clench and his mind start to stutter back towards worry, but Holmes' clever fingers make their way into his trousers just in time, and he forgets to worry about anything at all.

He arches into the touch with a groan, and he doesn't know when Holmes managed to get his trouser buttons undone, but he doesn't care. Holmes' fingers find his cock, and if it weren't for the door at his back, Watson would be a heap on the floor.

Holmes slides his hand in a bit further, but Watson's trousers weren't made for this, apparently, because between his erection and Holmes' hand, there isn't enough room. "Honestly, Watson," Holmes growls, "these trousers are beastly," and his other hand goes to work unsnapping one of Watson's braces.

Watson gets out only half a laugh before Holmes has done it, and hot, sweaty fingers are wrapped around his cock. His knees start to give out underneath him, and he slides a few inches towards the floor.

"Whoa," grunts Holmes, as he steps in close to bracket Watson against the door. There's a pause, during which they both consider relocation to the bed, but Watson doesn't want to move. His being this much lower and Holmes being that much closer have their bodies fitting together _perfectly_ , and he's not willing to give that up for anything, least of all practicality. So Watson sturdies himself as best he can without repositioning, and sets about unbuttoning Holmes' trousers.

It takes an embarrassing amount of concentration to get the job done, but then Holmes' cock is in his hand, heavy and hot, and Holmes makes what is quickly becoming Watson's new favourite noise. He rubs his thumb along the shaft, and feels a surge of pride as Holmes' eyes fall completely shut.

Holmes' fingers come tight around Watson's cock again, a moment later, and then they're stroking each other up and down, and if the pace is erratic and imperfect, neither seems to mind.

Watson's eyes close with every wave of pleasure, each stronger than the last, but he drags them back open every time, not wanting to miss a moment of what crosses over Holmes' face. It's by sheer force of will and luck, then, that they're open when Holmes expression suddenly changes. He looks Watson dead in the eye, warm and self-satisfied, _I've got it now, Doctor_ , and Watson very nearly spills himself.

It's a happy thing he doesn't, however, because in the next moment, Holmes has batted his hand away and has his own hips angled so that their cocks line up together, and he wraps his fingers around both of them.

True to form, it all ends very quickly after that.

[ : ] [ : ] [ : ]

  
Watson opens his eyes to find himself sitting on the floor, still propped up against the door. There's something warm pressed aside one of his thighs, and something solid resting atop the other. The first, he discovers, is Gladstone, who has settled himself to sleep against Watson's leg. The other is Holmes' head, with the rest of him stretched out at an angle along the floor.

Watson's heart gives a small stutter in his chest, but the clenching worry he expects doesn't follow; there's only warmth. At bit helplessly, he gives the dog a pat, and twines the fingers of his other hand into Holmes' hair.

"Ah, there you are," Holmes says. "I was beginning to wonder if you'd pass the whole night down here. I hope you're not in too much discomfort. Quite silly, really, that you didn't take up my offer to move the scant five feet to the bed."

"Did you make such an offer?" Watson asks.

"Not aloud, obviously, but it was the only logical course of action available, so I assumed it was understood."

Watson cocks a wry eyebrow. "I see," he says, and it's embarrassing how happy he sounds, when he meant to sound sceptical. "Well, you'll be pleased to know that I'm quite comfortable."

"Indeed I am," Holmes says, and he tilts his head into the press of Watson's fingers.

A deeply quiet moment passes, interrupted only by the grunt and snuffle Gladstone gives as he rolls slightly, giving Watson's scratching fingers better access to his belly.

"Will it be enough?" Holmes asks, in a tone that would sound casual to most anyone else.

Watson looks down at him and isn't sure quite what to say, because Holmes has been enough for him for a long, long time, and it doesn't seem possible that he shouldn't already know that.

"Yes," he answers, and can't bring himself to say much more. "Quite so, old boy."


End file.
